


L IS FOR LOSER

by eunzos



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura-Keith-Pidge as #MeanGirlSquad, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Pizza Delivery Boy! Keith, the most Cliche fic you'll ever read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-29 21:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7700140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eunzos/pseuds/eunzos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keith likes delivering pizza; Shiro likes eating pizza; and they might like each other. What more do you need?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A IS FOR ACCIDENTAL MEETINGS

**A IS FOR ACCIDENTAL MEETINGS**

_Fuck_ , he thinks as he turns the corner. _Goddammit. Shit_. His GPS announces the destination, and he eases on the brake until he comes to a full stop in front of a brightly lit house that’s practically _vibrating_ with Black Eyed Peas. He doesn’t care too much about the condition of the house itself; as a deliverer, he can’t judge — but when the house has eight cars lined up in the driveway and on the side of the road (no exaggeration here), he’s gonna judge.

Inconsiderate noise, inconsiderate parking: it’s a high school party. He knows this much, despite having been a deliverer for only two weeks. And he also knows, because he’s dealt with _a lot_ of customers within these two weeks, that this house is filled with assholes. He’s ten minutes late, and mind you, it’s not his fault. Rush-hour traffic, missing a turn ‘cause the neighborhood sign’s hidden behind shrubs, and now _parking_. He’d be lucky to even get payment.

He parks three houses down (and by park, we’re talking _squeeze into the next available space because assholes don’t know how to carpool_ ). And he gets out with six boxes of pizza in hand. Now here’s the thing about delivering pizza: he doesn’t mind the driving, he doesn’t mind the rush or the occasional shitty tips, but he _does mind_ the people he meets at the door. Two weeks in, and he swears he’s seen it all. Ten-year-olds who get chewed out by their parents because they didn’t know about this pizza order, old couples who try to pay their $6.73 hot wings order with a check and — this is what keeps Keith up at night — men who answer the door completely naked. Yes, dick, balls, the whole package deal (no pun intended).

And here’s a fact: Keith is super gay. He beats himself off to gay porn every now and then. But when he’s at work, he doesn’t want to see _all of that_. And he _definitely_ doesn’t want to hear “well, damn, I don’t have any money — can I pay you any other way?” ‘Cause this is real life and not a fuckin’ porno, and yeah, that guy didn’t get his extra-large sausage pizza that night.

He’s not expecting that scenario to happen with this house, but in all honesty, he’d rather experience that again over _this_. High school parties mean high schoolers, and since Altea High is the only high school in proximity to this house and the pizza place, there’s a likely chance that these are his classmates. See, he doesn’t give two shits about the hierarchy of the school, but he still has his pride as that cool loner kid who eats lunch on the rooftop like an anime protagonist.

There’s no answer when he knocks. 

Not that he’s expecting an answer, since the music’s way too loud (and Black Eyed Peas, _really_ , what year is it — 2008?), but when he rings the doorbell, there’s some indistinct shouting and he’s pretty sure he hears glass breaking before the door’s yanked open.

“Oh, fuck yeah! Pizza guy!”

Keith doesn’t even have a _chance_ to react; they take the pizzas from him (delivery bag and all), and the whole crowd of them are chanting “Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” as they disappear back into the house. He stands there, arms throbbing with retracted warmth, and then he scowls.

The football team. Of course. Who else would throw these big house parties? But that’s not his main concern. Right now, currently, _at this moment_ , he hasn’t gotten paid, and trespassing is unfortunately illegal. All he can do is stand there and ring the doorbell a couple of more times until finally — _finally_ — a sensible person comes to the door.

Except.

It’s the last person he wants to see.

 _Fuck me_.

(Not literally.)

(Because this is not a porno.)

“Keith?”

He recognizes that dumb “edgy” haircut from a mile away. Half-assed undercut, long white bangs that are styled to the exact fluff of a low-maintenance poodle tail — it’s Shiro: the star quarterback, football captain, and practically the only person in the world that can _kinda_ pull off that hairstyle. Emphasis on _kinda_.

“That’ll be $104.25.”

His eyes shift away as Shiro pulls out his wallet and starts shuffling through. Outwardly, Keith is fine. He may be rocking on his heels a bit, but he’s composed, and he’s definitely not letting this unwarranted meeting get to him. Inwardly — he’s dying. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to take part in what awkward conversation may follow. But unpleasant small talk is what this job entails. It’s just. They could’ve literally sent _anyone else_ to come pay, and Keith would’ve been all right; but no. They sent _Shiro_.

“You said one-oh-four?”

Keith peers up, then takes the crumpled bills offered to him. Six twenties. “Uh. Do you — have a ten or something?” Usually he carries enough change, but he had to make a stop before this one and well, that’s where the majority of his change went.

“Oh, that’s tip.”

Now Keith _really_ looks up. “Dude. That’s a $16 tip.” Not that he’s really complaining, but he doesn’t want to take a large tip then run into problems later because _someone_ decided the tip was too much.

“It’s fine. Just keep it.”

Keith doesn’t argue, ‘cause he needs the money. And he also wants to get out of here. So he turns to go, but then Shiro says something, and he thinks _shit_.

“I didn’t know you delivered pizza.”

It takes the pinnacle of effort for Keith to turn back around and not look like a deer caught in headlights. “Yeah,” he says, tucking his sweaty palms in his pockets (something he _shouldn’t_ do because it’s not, strictly speaking, professional — but his boss’s not here, so what gives). “I, uh, started a couple of weeks ago.”

“Really?” Shiro’s leaning against the door frame now, arm propped up, head tilted at a slight angle. “That’s cool. That you deliver pizza.” He pauses. “Are you - Are you doing all right?”

Forget professionalism, Keith’s frowning now. He wants out. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to keep forcing himself to _not_ check Shiro out, and he just — “Listen. I need to get back.” He doesn’t wait for a proper farewell; the moment he steps off the porch, he makes a beeline to his car.

Only to stop half-way.

And turn back around.

He’s at the house again, and his breath is caught in his throat. Shiro answers the door, pizza slice in hand, cheek puffed with the previous slice.

“You’re back — oh. Hold on.” Shiro disappears for a moment, then comes back with the delivery bags. “Sorry ‘bout that. We’ve just been waiting for a while.”

“It’s fine.” Keith takes the bags, then leaves for a second time. He hears Shiro say “I’ll see you around?” but he’s far enough from the house to pretend he didn’t hear it.

The drive back is a quiet one, and the rest of his shift goes smoothly.

.

.

.

“— going to try to ask me to Homecoming, and I don’t want to turn him down _again_. I wish he’d stop — hey, are you guys listening to me?” Allura turns to them, brow furrowed.

Pidge doesn’t even look up from cleaning her saxophone. “Nope.”

“I’m listening.” Hands tucked behind head, Keith reclines onto the cold concrete that makes up the school rooftop. “Keep talking.”

“You’re obviously not listening.”

“I am.”

He hears Allura shift, and the next thing he knows, she leaning over him, her silver locks cascading off her shoulders. She pokes his cheek. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

She pokes him again. “Tell me.” And again. “Did someone offer you sex in exchange for pizza again? Keith. _Keiiith_.”

He slaps her hand away and sits up, and though she draws back to give him room to do so, she’s still too close. “I said it’s nothing, so back off. All right?” Instinctively, he raises a hand to block her prodding finger.

She huffs. “Pidge, tell him to tell me.”

Pidge removes the saxophone reed from her mouth. “Just tell her, Keith.”

“No one offered me sex. I just got a $16 tip. That’s it.”

Allura leers closer, eyes squinting, lips quirked in a soft smirk. “ _Who was it_?”

“Some customer. — Look, nothing happened. Drop it already.”

There are times when Keith appreciates Allura. She’s a good friend: protective, but not overbearing. Pulls him out of the house and drives him around town with the windows rolled down. Listens to him whenever he needs to vent and offers sound advice that he can actually _take_. But there are also times — times like _these_ — when he wants her to lay off. She knows about them. Knows what they _were_. He just doesn’t want to bring it up now.

Unfortunately, Pidge has other ideas.

“I know who it is,” she says, tucking the reed into its case, “but I’m not telling.”

Allura’s mouth falls open and she looks over at Pidge, expression painted with a mark of true betrayal. “Pidge. _Spill_.”

Keith bites his tongue and reconsiders the situation. What’s the worst that can come from Allura finding out? Consistent teasing, sure, but she’ll eventually stop. Judgement? Keith judges _her_ on a daily basis, so he supposes _that_ ’s fair. As long as she —

_DRIIING!_

“Oh, my _God_.” Allura huffs again and picks up her empty lunch bag. “After cheer, I’m going to swing by band practice, and you _will_ tell me who it is.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder and throws Keith a look. Her eyes narrow for the briefest moment before she gets up to leave. “Don’t be late to class, kids.” And with that, the door to the rooftop swings shut behind her.

Pidge closes her saxophone case.

“I actually don’t know,” she says.

Keith blinks. “What?”

“I just told her I did so she’d leave you alone.” She rises to her feet and picks up her instrument. “I wouldn’t worry about it. You know her. She’ll drop it eventually.”

 _Eventually_ as in _another week or so_. Allura doesn’t forget. That’s one thing Keith knows about her, having been close friends with her for three years now. And sooner or later, she’s going to find out; being head cheerleader gives her _connections_ and unfortunately for Keith, her best resources are her fellow cheerleaders, and by unspoken law, the football players themselves.

“Anyway. I’m out. Peace.”

Pidge gives him a two-finger salute before leaving herself, and as the door closes for the second time, Keith contemplates going to class. His next period is — as fate would have it — the only class he shares with Shiro. Psychology. An elective. Usually he’s fine in this class; he comes in right as the bell rings, and books it when class ends. Shiro has never tried talking to him, least try to make eye contact, and they sit on opposite ends of the room, so it’s not like Shiro has the chance _to_ chat him up. But after the awkward exchange from this past weekend, Keith _knows_ Shiro will attempt to talk to him. It’s just who he is.

So Keith decides to skip.

Which doesn’t go as unnoticed as he planned.

As the final bell rings and he’s making his way to the parking lot, he hears an ever-familiar voice calling out his name. Part of him wants to pretend he didn’t hear anything _again_ , but that’s nearly impossible when he hears fast-paced footsteps increasing in volume behind him. He stops, turns, and watches as Shiro slows down from his light jog.

“You skipped.”

Shiro’s chest is heaving, and Keith wills himself not to look too intently.

“I didn’t feel like going.”

“We have a test next period. Here —” Shiro holds out a notebook. “Notes from today.”

Keith glances from Shiro’s face to the notebook, then back to Shiro’s face. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, though.”

He moves to side-step Shiro, but _that_ doesn’t go as well either; Shiro grabs his arm, and Keith closes his eyes to breathe.

“Are you sure you don’t want them?” Shiro asks, and Keith hates how concerned he sounds, _hates_ how incredibly soothing his voice is.

“Yeah, I’m fine. And you need them to study anyway. I’ll just read the chapter.”

His sleeve slips from Shiro’s fingers, and he leaves. Luckily, Shiro doesn’t follow him. _Unluckily_ , Keith ends up sitting in the parking lot with his forehead pressed against the steering wheel, cheeks flushed, heart hammering in his chest.

.

.

.

Two days later, he gets an order from an address he knows far too well. It’s in his old neighborhood, that nicely furnished house that sits next to the empty one he used to call home. He doesn’t want to go there, but Wednesday nights are slow, and he’s the only driver working this shift. So he goes.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks as he gets out of the car and walks up to the door he so fondly remembers knocking on once upon a time.

 _Goddammit_. He rings the doorbell and immediately after, hears some incoherent yelling coming from inside. Amidst it all, he makes out one voice shouting “But I’m not the one paying!” and there’s someone thundering down the stairs saying “ _Jesus Christ_.”

Then the door opens.

And there he is: bare chest glistening with water droplets, loose gray sweatpants hugging tanned hips, and a faint trail of dark hair leading from his bellybutton to his —

Keith drops the pizza.

 _He drops the pizza_ , and at the same time, he looks up and meets Shiro’s steady gaze.

Caught.

 _Shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here's the thing about me: i make myself write (3) canon-verse fics first before i touch AUs. because i love AUs and i have a million ideas. this is just one of them. and i'm actually SUPER EXCITED to write this ?! so i hope you guys will enjoy reading it as much as i'll enjoy writing it! (-:
> 
> p.s. american schools generally don't have rooftop access but i made it happen just so i can make that anime protag joke
> 
> find me on tumblr @ [neruas](http://neruas.tumblr.com/) ♥


	2. B IS FOR BREAKING THE ICE

**B IS FOR BREAKING THE ICE**

Here’s a short list of things Keith likes about Shiro:

1) He’s forgiving. Even after Keith dropped the pizza and practically ruined what perfect dinner Shiro could’ve had, Shiro tipped him a solid $5 and didn’t say anything about Keith checking him out. 2) He’s understanding. Let it be known that Keith was _so fucking embarrassed_ about what happened that he skipped Psychology the next day — and fortunately, when he accidentally caught Shiro’s eyes from across the hall, Shiro didn’t track him down. 3) He has a nice body. And a nice smile. And the way he _laughs_ makes the world go ‘round, but that’s something Keith hasn’t personally heard in a while. His ass also looks _really good_ in those football tights, but those are totally Allura’s words and not his; he’s just agreeing.

Here’s a shorter list of things Keith _doesn’t_ like about Shiro:

1) He has a weird obsession with Pluto — not space or planets in general — just _Pluto_. Keith knows this is still the case, because Shiro has a button on his backpack that reads _PLUTO LIVES ON!_ 2) He orders extra pineapple on his pizza. Keith’s not in a position to judge because he likes anchovies on his, but seriously. Extra pineapple. Who does that? 3) And the thing Keith doesn’t like most about Shiro is the way he makes him _feel_. As in. If Shiro ordered an extra-large sausage pizza and didn’t have the money to pay for it, Keith would give him the pizza. But those are also Allura’s words.

Really.

“Earth to Keith.” Allura snaps her fingers in front of his face, and he jerks back, alert. “Stop daydreaming about Shiro.”

“I wasn’t —”

“A- _ha_ , so it _is_ Shiro.” She straightens up, hands on hips, smirk sitting daintily on her dark lips. “Told you I’d find out.”

“Pidge —”

“Hey, man. I said I didn’t know. You blew your own cover.”

Keith narrows his eyes, then switches his gaze to Allura. She stands there, towering over his seated position, and he knows what’s coming; her face says it clearly. Questions, questions, questions. Did you try to make conversation? Did you talk? What did you talk about? Details, details, _details_ , and don’t you _dare_ leave anything out.

She opens her mouth — he braces himself — then she asks, “You’re coming to the game tonight, right?”

And Keith _stares_.

“What, you thought I was going to ask?” Allura scoffs. “Keith, I don’t _need_ to ask. You’re going to tell me yourself sooner or later. Tell ‘im, Pidge.”

“You’re not really good at keeping things a secret.” Pidge reaches over from her own seated position and offers Keith a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Sorry.”

Keith kinda wants to throw himself into a black hole. He should be glad that Allura’s not pushing it, but at the same time, he can’t help but feel offended. He can keep secrets. Sure, he might’ve vented to Allura about anything and everything, then turned around and offhandedly told Pidge his entire life story; but he can keep things hush-hush if he really wants to. And _this_ , he decides, he will keep quiet about ‘cause it’s really none of their business, and it’s not like this is a big deal anyway.

“Now, are you coming or not?”

“Er —” Does he have anything better to do tonight? No. He has the day off, and he crams homework on Sunday. Does he want to go, though? He has a wildcard answer. Allura will be cheering and Pidge will be marching, so he _supposes_ it won’t hurt to tag along and y’know, support them. “Sure?”

Allura grins. “Good. I need you to protect me from Blueberry.”

Pidge makes a face, and the three of them share knowing looks.

“Homecoming?” he asks, lips slightly pursed at the thought.

Allura nods, hands falling to her side. “One of my girls said he’s going to ask me at half-time. I don’t want to tell him ‘no’ in front of everyone — but! If you’re there, you can chase him away. So you better not bail, you hear?”

“Got it.”

“And Pidge? Blow your heart out.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

.

.

.

Keith does not really understand football. The extent of his knowledge comes from attending a couple of games in the past and watching a few episodes of _Friday Night Lights_. As far as he’s concerned, if Shiro’s running with the ball, then they’re winning. That seems to be the case for this evening.

He stays to himself for the most part. Having taken a seat directly behind the cheer team, he has easy access to Allura — but unfortunately, she hasn’t had any downtime since the game started, so he’s been sitting here, elbow propped on his knee, gloved fingers partially covering his mouth. He switches from watching the game, to watching the cheer team, to watching the band on the other side of the bleachers. The saxophones are up on their seats playing _Careless Whisper_. Blow your heart out, indeed.

When half-time comes along and the band leaves their stands to perform on the field, Keith looks around for their lion mascot. It doesn’t take him long to find it, especially since the person _in_ the mascot costume is making a fool out of himself. As always.

See, here’s the thing: Keith didn’t mind him at first. He's just another loudmouth in his class that Keith actively sought to ignore. But then boy toy named Lance (code name: _Blueberry_ ) started hitting on Allura, and things just went downhill from there. Allura took his flirtatious comments in strides, very calmly, very maturely; but eventually it got annoying and she was _done_. Now here’s the kicker: Once upon a time, when Keith told him to shut up and go away, Lance gave him a _look_ , then said — and these were his exact words — “What was that, discount Billy Ray?” Keith had never felt so offended in his life. And Allura, who was right there beside him, declared war on Lance right then and there.

It’s a one-sided war, though. Lance still comes around because Allura’s too nice to tell him to fuck off. And now he’s about to ask Allura to Homecoming.

Keith sees him jogging over, and he knows Allura sees him too, because she puts her hand behind her back and holds up a single finger. One means _I got this_. Two means _Save me_.

Lance slows to a stop and takes off the lion head. Allura leans in to hear what he has to say, and they talk for a bit while the band performs. At one point, when the music softens into a ballad, Keith hears Allura laugh. Now he’s been around Allura long enough to know that she’s forcing that laugh, but she’s standing there with her arms folded, her hands void of signals, so he waits.

When the marching band finishes and starts petering off to the sidelines, Lance puts the lion head back on and runs off towards the band. Allura immediately turns around and makes a beeline over to Keith.

“I think he’s going to perform,” she says, her eyebrows knitting together. “I should’ve told him while we were talking. He was hinting at it, but I just —”

Distantly, a trumpet soloist starts playing, and they both look up. On the far side of the football field, a small group of band kids are gathered behind Lance and two color guards. They’re marching this way, swaying to the slow beat of _Can You Feel the Love Tonight_?

“Oh, God.” Allura cups her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God. Keith.”

The crowd that has dissipated for concessions begins filtering back into the bleachers to see what’s going on, but Keith is less worried about them and more worried about Allura, who’s biting her lip, eyes darting around in sheer discomfort.

Lance is drawing closer, the two color guards by his side peeling off to twirl their flags to the crescendo of the melody. It’s nicely put together, that Keith must admit, but he’s holding his breath; and from the looks of it, the rest of the cheer team is too. And just when he thinks it’s about over, Lance takes off the lion head a second time, and he starts singing to the last phrase. Keith can barely hear him over the trumpets and trombones, among other instruments, but he’s definitely singing, and Keith is definitely embarrassed on his behalf.

“What do I do? I can’t just —” Allura's voice quivers with hesitation, and she looks towards her team, then to him. “Keith, what do I do?”

It has always been Allura who tells _him_ what to do, so when she asks him for once, he feels himself tensing up. What would he do if he were in her shoes? Well. First of all. He would never be in this position, because if he were her, he would’ve told Lance to fuck off from day one. But now —

“I .. uh. I don’t know.” _Nice going, asshole_.

The song drifts into a nostalgic end, and when it does, Lance flips the poster board over in his hands and holds it in front of his chest. _HOMECOMING?_ It reads in big blue glittery letters. Keith bites his tongue, and the small parade comes to a stop a couple of feet away.

He wants to leave, but he can’t. He _won’t_ , not without Allura.

Wait.

Idea.

“Oh, Lance. This is .. really something. I, um.” She glances at Keith, then quickly jerks her gaze back to Lance. “I don’t know what to say. I’m a bit overwhelmed by all of this. I wasn't really expecting .. I mean. Um, can you —”

“She’s going with me.” Keith rises to his feet and takes Allura’s hand, warm fingers intertwining with cold ones. “Sorry, man.”

And the sheepish smile on Lance’s face _falls_.

It  _falls_ , and Keith tries his absolute best to dismiss what guilt he's starting to feel.

He's doing this for Allura, he reminds himself. This is for Allura. Because Allura doesn't deserve this.

Unfortunately, it doesn't go over anyone's head.

“— What the _fuck_?” One of the color guards pushes past Lance, her blonde pigtails bouncing with as much anger as her face presents. She sizes up to Allura, poking her in the chest with an accusing finger. “You knew he was going to ask. You _knew_ and —”

“Hey, back off.” Keith reaches out to shove the girl back, but she grabs his wrist.

“And _you_ , I know you’re not —”

“Nyma.” The voice, shaken, a bit tired almost, draws attention to the teen in the lion costume. Lance walks up to them, eyes downcast, and places a hand on the color guard's shoulder. “Come on. Let’s just go. It’s fine.”

She turns to him, her hair slapping Keith's face in the process. “No, it’s _not_ fine. We planned this for _weeks_. And she _knew_ —”

“It’s not worth it. Let's go. Come on.” Lance tugs at her shoulder again.

She huffs, then peers back at them, eyes narrowing with dangerous intent. “You guys are _jerks_.” And with, she grabs Lance’s wrist and yanks him away. The small band follows close after, none of them sparing the two a look.

After they go, the cheer team comes to surround them, offering Allura hugs of comfort as she buries her face into their shoulders.

Keith lets go of her hand, and at the same time, catches the eye of someone watching from afar: _Shiro_. Their gazes hold for a while until he sees Lance plopping down next to him, shoulders hunched forward in apparent dejection. Shiro turns his attention to Lance then, and Keith wills himself to look away, to bury the discomfort that sits heavily on his chest.

Right.

They’re friends.

(Since when?)

“— I need to tell him.”

At the sound of Allura’s voice, Keith looks over.

“It’s not right. I need to tell him.”

“Do you want to take him to Homecoming?”

“No. I mean. I just — don’t want to give him any ideas but ..”

“Then leave it. He’ll get over it eventually. Listen.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “It was his own fault for assuming you’d say _yes_.”

Allura looks at him, _really_ looks at him, then she throws her arms around him and squeezes him tight. “Thank you.” He pats her back, a soothing gesture, and when she draws away, she peers over at her cheer team. “And thank you all as well.”

She gives them a small smile, though Keith knows _that_ ’s faked too, and the football game continues into the third quarter.

They win, as expected, but the significantly toned down excitement from the cheerleaders, the band, and the mascot himself makes it seem like they've lost.

.

.

.

Keith calls her that night.

“You okay?”

She’s quiet for a moment, then asks, “Is Pidge here?”

“I’ll add her. Hold on.”

He shifts their call to a three-way.

“‘Sup, guys.”

“Pidge, did you know?” Though her words are firm, Keith hears her voice waver.

“Uh — about the proposal thing? Nope. I don’t talk to anyone in brass except for like, Hunk. But Hunk didn’t tell me anything. Trust me, you would know if I knew.” A pause. “If it makes you feel better, my entire section is on your side. I mean, there’s only eleven of us, but this is the first time we all cohesively agreed on something.”

“Like I said,” Keith pipes in. “He’ll get over it. Just leave him alone, and he’ll come around.”

There’s another bounce of silence before Allura speaks again: “Are you working tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause, this time longer.

“‘Til what time?”

“Ten, I think?”

“Do you want to swing by with pizza after your shift?”

“Sure.”

“You’re invited too, Pidge. And before you ask, _no_ , we’re not going to watch _GATTACA_ again. You’re too obsessed with that movie.”

“But _Mom_.”

“No but’s.”

And finally,  _finally_ , Allura laughs. It's authentic this time, just as it should be.

Keith’s grip loosens around the phone, and he settles back in his seat, a soft smile passing by his lips.

Allura will be fine. _Everything_ will be fine. Disorder creates a need for order, and with time, he’s sure all will be well.

.

.

.

They watch _GATTACA_ for the sixth time this year.

And he ends up eating half of the pizza, because his best friends are anchovy-haters.

.

.

.

Everything falls into place. By Tuesday, Lance seems to be himself again (loud, obnoxious, asking all sorts of crazy questions to distract their English teacher from doing her job — something Keith admittedly endorses), and the school as a whole appears to have forgotten about the incident Friday night.

But then something _else_ happens, and everything falls back apart.

It’s Thursday, five minutes before Psychology ends. The class is packing up, as per usual, and then ( _whoo boy_ ) the teacher claps his hands together and draws their attention up front.

“Attention, class! I have one more thing before you go!”

Someone whispers _oh my fucking God_ , and it’s totally not Keith. Totally.

“As we’re approaching the end of September, it’s time for me to assign your mid-term project. You’ll be designing and executing a small correlational study ..” Keith tunes out, then immediately tunes back in when he hears the word _partner_. “That’s right! The majority of you are upperclassmen, so I will let you make the adult decision of who to work with. Quick, choose your partners. We only have —” He glances at the clock. “— a minute! Tick tock!”

Keith has no problem working with others if need be, but for him to do so, there needs to be. Well. An _other_.

Everyone around him seems to have a partner, and Keith is so completely  _fine_ with that. Completely. _Fine_. He can work alone. It’s probably for the best anyway, considering his job. Among other things. Like. Having to compromise for a grade. Or over-worrying his partner because he likes to do things last minute. So yeah, working alone. _Great_.

If only that were an option.

“Sorry, no golden trios for this project! One of you needs to go work with — who doesn’t have a partner? — ah yes, Keith, over there in the back corner.”

“It’s fine,” Keith says. “I can work alone.”

“Yes, I’m sure you can, but this is a partner project, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to work with someone. Now, one of you needs to be a responsible adult and  _volunteer_  —”

“I’ll do it.”

 _Oh, hell_.

Keith doesn’t look over, he doesn't need to. He keeps his stiffened posture, eyes straight, edge of seat, waiting for the bell to ring. And when it finally does, he’s on his feet and out the door in less than a second. Nope nope  _nope_.

He doesn’t make it far.

“Keith! Wait!”

 _Fuck me up_.

He stops. Lets out a deep breath. Turns around just in time to see Shiro pick up a book for someone and bid them a quick apology. Then he’s in front of Keith, cocking his head as a gesture to move to the side of the hallway. They do so accordingly.

“Do you still have my number?”

“No.”

 _Yes_.

“Here, I’ll text you so you can have it.”

Shiro takes out his phone and taps the screen a few times. Keith feels his own phone vibrate in his front pocket, but he ignores it.

“Hey! Put that phone up!”

“Oh, shi — Yes, ma’am!” Shiro hastily tucks the phone into his pocket before glancing back over at Keith. “I have a few ideas for our project. I’ll call you tonight around seven?”

“Text me.”

Because Keith’s not a fuckin’ masochist, all right?

“Right. Work. I forgot. Yeah, I can text you. Um.” Shiro takes a quick look at his watch. “I gotta get to class. I’ll see you around.”

Then Shiro’s gone.

And Keith is very very _very_ fucked, and not in a good way either.

He walks to class, his fingers clenched tight on his backpack strap, feet grounded deep into linoleum floors; and when he finally settles in his seat, his head drops to the desk.

Amidst the darkness that consumes his sights, he finds a reason to stop breathing:

Shiro still has his number.

After everything that happened, after everything he had _done_ —

 _Shiro still has his number_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few things -  
> 1) im !! so !!!! super happy that so many of you are liking this fic so far! like tyvm for all the kudos & comments & subscriptions!!! but also: please buckle up because it's gonna be a hella bumpy ride.  
> 2) no hate for ppl who like pineapple on their pizza. i actually love pineapple on mine soooo  
> 3) spoiler alert: don't worry about lance, he'll be fine......... eventually (^:  
> 4) im actually going to conduct a small scale version of the study shiro & keith are gonna do. which means you guys can be apart of the result ohoho. tbqh the study's gonna be something random af..... if you have ideas, please comment below!


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